se of you who
live in the city will understand it; but some of my little readers may
live in the country, (or at least I hope they do,) where a beggar is
seldom seen; or if he is, can always get of the good, nice,
kind-hearted farmer, a bowl of milk, a fresh bit of bread, and liberty
to sleep in the barn on the sweet-scented hay; therefore, it will be
hard for you to believe that there is anybody in the wide world with
enough to eat, and drink, and wear, who does not care whether a poor
fellow creature starves or not; or whether he lives or dies.

But listen to my story.

One bright, sunny morning I was walking in Broadway, (New-York,)
looking at the ladies who passed, in their gay clothes--as fine as
peacocks, and just about as silly--gazing at the pretty shop windows,
full of silks, and satins, and ribbons, looking very much as if a
rainbow had been shivered there--looking at the rich people's little
children, with their silken hose, and plumed hats, and velvet tunics,
tip-toeing so carefully along, and looking so frightened lest somebody
should soil their nice clothes--when a little, plaintive voice struck
upon my ear--

"Please give me a penny, Madam--_only_ a penny--to buy a loaf of
bread?"

[Illustration: ONLY A PENNY.]

I turned my head: there stood a little girl of six years,--so filthy,
dirty--so ragged, that she scarcely looked like a human being. Her skin
was coated with dust; her pretty curly locks were one tangled mass; her
dress was fluttering in strings around her bare legs and shoeless
feet--and the little hand she held out to me for "a penny," so bony
that it looked like a skeleton's. She looked so very hungry, I wouldn't
make her talk till I had given her something to eat; so I took her to a
baker's, and bought her some bread and cakes; and it would have made
you cry (you, who were never hungry in your life,) to see her swallow
it so greedily, just like a little animal.

Then I asked her name, and found out 'twas "Clara;" that she had no
papa; that while he lived he was very cruel, and used to beat her and
her mother; and that now her mother was cruel too, and drank rum; that
she sent little Clara out each morning to beg,--or if she couldn't beg,
to steal,--but at any rate to bring home something, "unless she wanted
a beating."

Poor little Clara!--all alone threading her way through the great,
wicked city--knocked and jostled about,--_so_ hungry--_so_ tired--_so_
frightened! Clara was afraid